


Where Heaven and Earth Meet

by Zanne



Series: John Winchester/Illyria 'verse [17]
Category: Angel: the Series, Firefly, Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-10
Updated: 2011-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-20 07:11:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanne/pseuds/Zanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Illyria finally name the baby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Heaven and Earth Meet

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to hakirby for beta-ing my John/Illyria reserve. Kripke owns the Winchesters and Whedon owns Illyria. Hakirby assures me there is some subtext about Mother as Goddess in what I thought was merely another John kink. I'm deeper than I thought, apparently.

The soft crying coming from the next room immediately drew John’s attention from his weapons – a feat heretofore unseen by mankind. He tossed the oily rag to the floor, wiping his hands carelessly on his pants as he made his way hurriedly through the bedroom door.

Illyria had already settled in the chair by the bed, nestling the baby to her breast as her armor melted away; she wondered, at first, why the child could not go hunting for its own meals, but John pointed out that the baby was mostly human and would need tending, for at least a little while. Illyria suggested that human children were like parasites, informing John that it was rather clever of the weak and soft little creatures to drain the energy from those stronger than they were.

John watched from the doorway, a small smile touching his lips as he silently observed his wife and newborn daughter. The scene was a futuristic Rockwell, a Madonna and child tinged in Picasso blue with Illyria’s milk-swollen breasts giving it an illicit Hustler feel that brought a flush to John’s cheeks, making him feel some long-extinct Catholic guilt over finding the scene so unintentionally erotic.

John crept closer to kneel at Illyria’s feet in order to watch his daughter feeding. He reached out a hand to casually stroke Illyria’s calf, feeling her muscles firm beneath his fingers. Eyes wide with wonder, John leaned over to kiss Illyria’s kneecap, murmuring against her skin, “You are so beautiful like this.”

Illyria blinked at him, replying with an amused quirk of her lip, “Naked?”

“That, too,” John agreed while carefully pushing her knees apart, leaving oil smudged fingerprints on her pale skin as he brushed his lips along the inside of her thigh. He glanced up at her, his eyes dark with want as he dragged his stubbled cheek over the sensitive skin, making Illyria shiver from the sensation.

“If I drop her, it will be all your doing,” Illyria pro-actively declared. “Human babies can dent, I am told.”

“You won’t drop her,” John assured her huskily, leaning in to bite the soft meat of Illyria’s thigh as he shifted her hips forward in the chair. With an almost pleading sound of need, John buried his nose in the soft blue curls between her legs, darting his tongue out to taste her.

Illyria brushed her fingers through his black hair, her skin appearing even whiter by contrast as she softly interrupted, “She is finished.”

John quivered as his body achingly demanded he continue, his fingers digging convulsively into Illyria’s hips before he planted another kiss just underneath her bellybutton. He reached up to take the baby from Illyria, placing the child gently in the – thankfully - nearby bassinet on the bed. The baby snuffled softly, her eyes tightly closed as John gave her a soft pat and returned his attention to her mother.

“Now you _can’t_ drop her,” he informed Illyria, repositioning himself between her legs as he caressed her thighs with his hands.

With tender reverence, John placed a soft kiss on Illyria’s lips before laying his head on her chest, listening for the subtle sound that was Illyria’s heartbeat. It wasn’t the palpable pounding of a human heart, that thick, meaty thud of muscle moving blood, but the intangible clamor of water roiling endlessly in and around the rocks along the muddy bottom of a river – that never-ending white noise that indicated life was happening, even if it couldn’t be seen.

With a throaty sigh of veneration, John planted kisses along her collarbone, tracing his tongue from the hollow of her throat down between the valley of her breasts, nuzzling at the warmth he found there. His mouth wandered over to her pale blue-tinted nipple and he lapped at the hardened tip, tongue curling like a kitten’s, his eyes glancing up to see if this were allowed. Illyria nodded slightly, granting her permission, and John latched on with a wanton moan, his fingers denting the curves of her hips as he suckled.

John had always been curious about the taste; he had reveled in the other flavors of his women - their mouths, their sweat, their blood, that salty slickness between their legs, but this was something entirely unexplored. Mary had never given her consent, keeping this side of her only for their children, guarding it selfishly from even him. He hadn’t begrudged her the decision, but felt that he was missing something inexplicable from the experience of being a father, something he couldn’t even begin to express in words, but that had weighed heavily somewhere deeply inside.

The taste wasn’t what he expected – somehow bitter and sweet at the same time, with an undercurrent of….

 _Power_. Raw and pure, it hit him like the coiling heat of high summer. John could actually taste it on his tongue and he groaned, biting down as he pulled harder on Illyria’s breast. Somewhere in the back of his mind, where the primal part of him dwelled, John knew this was what it felt like to have existed in the Time before Time, when such power ran freely for the taking of whatever creature was strong enough to drink of it.

John fumbled with his belt, scrambling to get himself unbuttoned and unzipped before he burst from the sheer enormity of the sensation. With a growl against Illyria’s breast, he sheathed himself inside her tight heat, one arm around her hips keeping her in place as he pumped hard between her legs, his mouth never leaving her.

The chair creaked in protest, but John was lost to everything but the taste and feel of Illyria, and the rapidly building swell of power about to burst through his skin. As the fount suddenly ran dry, John came, biting down hard on Illyria’s breast, her blood mingling with the last drops of milk on his tongue.

John awoke molded against Illyria’s body, his skin still buzzing with the remnants of power accorded him. “Holy _fuck_ , Illyria,” he murmured groggily, still dizzy from the rush.

Illyria soothingly caressed him, her hand working its way under his shirt to stroke along his spine as she murmured against his hair, “Be still. It will take a few moments to pass.”

John laid limply against her, panting weakly as a slight tremble shook his body, his sweat-dampened skin growing clammy to the touch. His brain hummed with an indistinct clamoring noise, beseeching and demanding and persuasive, hinting at power and need and… _everything_.

“What is that?” he asked fuzzily, his brow furrowing in confusion. “My head is so…full.”

Illyria continued to stroke his hair, admitting off-handedly, “The heartbeat of the universe.”

Squinting in an attempt to focus, John gazed at his sleeping daughter, wonderment growing inside of him.

“She tastes you and goes to _sleep_?” He weakly raised his head, his voice raspy as he turned his face to Illyria’s to ask, “How much power does she really have?”

“More than you have ever seen,” Illyira admitted with a hint of pride. “But she will grow into her ability.”

John collapsed against Illyria again, chuckling roughly, “We really need to come up with a name for her.” As Illyria opened her mouth to speak, John cut her off, “And I already told you - ‘Baby’, ‘Spawn’, ‘Offspring’, and ‘Female Child’ are not gonna cut it.”

“Anz'a,” Illyria said simply, the ‘z’ a soft trill. “That is her name.”

John arched an eyebrow against her chest, muttering, “At least it’s not Brittany.” He rubbed his unshaven cheek over her skin, asking, “What’s it mean?”

Illyria idly plucked at his hair, curling it around her fingers as she said, “It is based on the tongue of my people.” She cupped her hand around the nape of his neck, her fingers cool and calming against his still shivering skin. “Anz'a – where Heaven and Earth meet.”

John snuggled against his wife, wrapping his arms loosely around her waist. “You named her after us, you old softy.”

“I suppose I did,” Illyria agreed with a quirk of her blue-shaded lip. She tugged sharply on his hair. “Plus, it is pretty.”

 


End file.
